


PURGATORY

by chalklandingplace



Category: Original Work, PURGATORY - Fandom
Genre: Afterlife, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Car Accidents, Character Death, Death, Drunk Driving, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Character Death, Old Age, POV Character of Color, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Purgatory, Serious Injuries, Suicide, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27399229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalklandingplace/pseuds/chalklandingplace
Summary: I started this story back in 2016 and I only have the first chapter finished. I may continue writing it if people are interested in reading it.Since I haven't written past Chap. 1, the summary of this story could ten billion percent change if I continue writing but this was the original idea so far:"After committing suicide, Damien goes through Purgatory where he experiences a series of events that lead him to find his best friend, Hector. Unfortunately, Hector has become extremely bitter after dying in an accident that Damien could have prevented, blaming him for his early death. Damien ventures through his temporary afterlife trying to be forgiven by Hector for his mistake while meeting many people who show him that what he did doesn’t determine the kind of person he is and in order to have closure, he has to be worthy of Hector's forgiveness."





	PURGATORY

_I’ve made a terrible mistake._

I open my eyes. I’m standing on the sidewalk of some street. It’s unsettlingly dark. There is a pale green streetlight overhead, but it barely illuminates the door in front of me. Looking around, every direction fades immediately into a black abyss. It’s like I spawned in an unfinished video game level. A thick fog begins to crawl in from the darkness. A shiver rolls down my spine as I turn back to the door. It has a frosted window with “PURGATORY” written in thick, red lettering across the bottom of the glass. _This feels like the start of a film noir._ I glance around once again. Still no other options. _I guess I have to go inside._ The door squeaks as I push it open and a bell rings from the door frame above me. A counter on a tiny table next to the door chimes, followed by a robotic voice, “112,602,802,719”.

“This must be hell,” I whisper to myself. An exposed, flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling provides the only source of light. I hesitate in the doorway for a minute, observing the contents of the gloomy room. There’s water damage in the ceiling near a corner of the room. Water drips from the hole, landing into a bucket on the floor. The entire carpet is so discolored from who knows what—I can’t even tell which color it _should_ be. The tacky, green wallpaper is peeling and the air smells musty. Eventually, I move from the destroyed welcome mat beneath my feet and close the door behind me. The first thing I notice is a set of damaged sofas, sitting perpendicular to the doorway but parallel to each other. I approach the one on my right, running my hand across its mustard yellow ripped-up armrest. The upholstery is stained and worn out probably from countless people sitting on it. Across from the first sits another couch, also dilapidated. That one is sky blue. Duct tape acts as makeshift-upholstery, binding together segments of the ripped cushion to prevent stuffing from escaping. The walls of the room are bare, oddly enough. Not even a clock hangs nearby. Opposite the entrance, a sliding glass window shields an empty reception desk. The underside of its counter crowded with cobwebs. Beside the desk, pristine double doors lie untouched by time. Its porcelain color as fresh as if it was painted yesterday.

Suddenly the lightbulb flickers, going out for a moment, then promptly lighting up again. I jump, surprised as a woman calls from the other side of the room. She speaks softly with a thick, Brazilian accent. Her words are faint, muted behind the closed sliding glass window.

“Hello there!” She says tenderly, smiling as she sits at the previously unattended desk. _She must have just manifested there because I swear, I didn't see her two seconds ago._ I notice she's facing me. Her eyes enormous, magnified by the large frames of her glasses. Except, I see no pupils or irises. Both eyes are completely cloudy, like two sizable pearls. I approach the counter, making my steps audible so I don’t startle her.

“Hello…” I respond. She slides the glass of the window aside. She sits at a vast tabletop consisting only of a massive rusty typewriter and a stack of blank paper nearby. Now, I’m close enough to note her appearance. She’s an older woman, most likely in her sixties. Amber skin complimented by the turquoise cardigan she’s wearing over her ivory dress. Long grey hair pulled into a high ponytail. Thick curls flowing from the top of her head, cascading all the way down her back. A light dusting of make-up illuminates her face even in such a shadowy room. Freckles dot her nose and cheeks while delicate wrinkles cradle the corners of her eyes. Her features are quite endearing.

“Welcome to Purgatory, meu filho!” 

“How do you know that I’m a guy, aren’t you…?” I trail off. _Do I have to say it?_

“I may be blind, but I’m not deaf.” She says, snickering. I slap my palm to my forehead. _That was a stupid question._

“Wow, I’m sorry ma’am.” I realize I haven’t figured out her name. I peer over the counter to locate a nameplate, but there’s nothing there. I think she sensed my curiosity.

“Mrs. Florencia Cristóbal,” she says, “what is your name?”

“Damien Lapierre, but my friends call me—well, _called_ me—Dam. Like ‘domino.’”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Damien.” She types quickly on the typewriter that looks like it could crumble apart any second. She surprising spells my first and last name correctly then looks up and smiles at me.

“Nice to meet you too, but you do see the humor in you being a blind receptionist, right?” She laughs hysterically, nodding. I laugh as well because it’s funnier that she laughed so hard. “What do you do here in…Purgatory?”

“I’m a secretary for this check-in desk.”

“Is this where everyone comes to?” I turn around to glance at the whole room once again. That would explain why it looks so decrepit in here.

“Goodness no, there are hundreds of thousands of check-in desks. Too many people die every day for everyone to come through here.” She shivers—I’m assuming at the thought of even more people coming through here. By the looks of her “office,” I don’t think it _could_ handle a larger workload. “We keep track of names, ages, birthdays, causes of death, and the number of times they've come through here.” _Like a gatekeeper to the underworld?_ She points to the stacks and stacks of typed papers scattered all around the small room. Behind her, a row of shelves and silver filing cabinets line the wall. Each organized alphabetically, every label displaying a specific range of letters. Yet, almost all the drawers are overflowing, after being filed incorrectly. Towering stacks of typed paper rest on every surface imaginable. From floor to ceiling, everywhere except her desk. Papers are even pinned to the walls, overlapping each other and covering every empty spot because of the limited space. I now realize how disorganized and cluttered her space is. 

“Is this like…hell?” I mutter, still digesting the disarray in the background. _Who thought it was a good idea to make an old, blind woman file paperwork?_

“Absolutely not, everyone comes when they die; good or bad.” A breath of relief escapes my lungs.

“No, no, no, no, no!” A voice shouts, sobbing. Mrs. Cristóbal and I turn toward the door, alarmed by the unexpected outburst. I can see a shadowy figure seemingly pound the door several times, then lean against the frame and wail. I take a few steps closer to the glass, trying to make out a face. After a moment, the bell atop the door frame once again chimes with another robotic “112,602,802,720.” I stare in horror as a disheveled, Asian woman wearing a torched wedding gown stumbles in. She nearly falls, luckily catching her balance on the tiny counter table near the entrance. Her visible body bruised and bloody. The left side of her face coated with fresh blisters as well as black ash smeared all over her skin and the remnants of her dress. She sniffles, wiping tears from her eyes. Her frown widens into the slightest grin as she recognizes Mrs. Cristóbal.

“Hey, Florencia!” Her words somewhat muffled as she wipes her face with her dress, inadvertently making her face dirtier. She limps to the blue couch, crumpling into a heap of dirt and dress. “My name was Hikari Komagata. Born April 30th, 2046 so that makes me twenty-three. I’ve been through here seven times before now.” She relaxes into the couch and lets out a deep sigh. Shortly after, she springs upright. Leaning forward, she pulls up her puffy dress, exposing a brutally dislocated ankle. As I stare in disbelief, I hear Mrs. Cristóbal doing what I assume is removing the paper she was typing on earlier and inserting a different sheet. She begins typing all information the woman just disclosed—clicking away faster than I ever could—until she pauses.

“What was the cause of death ‘Kari?” Gazing at the floor, Hikari sighs. Clutching her foot with both hands, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then swiftly snaps her ankle back into place. I cringe in fear of the pain she would feel, expecting her to actually experience it but she surprisingly doesn't even flinch. _Did she even feel that?_ She sits up, sinking comfortably into the sofa.

“It was my wedding day. My wife Saki and I were leaving the ceremony in the limousine. The driver was trying to make a left turn when the light changed. I saw the headlights right before we were t-boned by a tractor-trailer. I lost consciousness but when I woke up, I remember seeing Saki bleeding profusely a few yards away from me. I tried to move toward her, but I was pinned under the mangled limousine’s axel. A fire broke out from the tractor-trailer’ shortly before the paramedics arrived. I watched them rescue Saki from the wreckage but when they came for me, the fire spread and ignited the gasoline. Then the flames consumed everything,” she looks down at herself, throwing her arms up in disgrace, “including me apparently.” I gasp silently. _Oh my god._ She lets out a low whimper, tears welling in her eyes once again. “I wasn’t even ready to die yet! I still had so much I wanted to do. I’ve also never experienced the love I had with Saki in any of my past lives. Our connection was real, and now I’ll never be able to see...” I think a lump formed in her throat because she cut herself off. Her sadness is beginning to weigh heavy on my heart. Tears well up in my eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” Whispering as I approach. I seat myself beside her on the sofa and gently console her as she holds her face in her hands. We share a solemn moment. Eventually, Mrs. Cristóbal fills the silence. I hear her open what sounds like a squeaky desk drawer and digs through the contents. She closes the drawer and beckons Hikari to the desk. Being this close to her, I notice a small tattoo on the side of her neck. In teeny, black letters, it reads “CA”. _Is she from California?_ She sits up, rising to approach the counter. I follow her with my eyes as she walks perfectly up to the front desk.

“I don’t need to give you a Temperament Tag to know you lived a good life this time around ‘Kari. I truly hope you cross paths with Saki again.” Mrs. Cristóbal smiles, wrapping a thick, white bracelet around Hikari’s wrist. It turns pale pink, prompting Hikari to return the smile.

“Thank you, Florencia.” She says, chuckling, “You’ve always had such a kind heart. I’m glad to see this job hasn’t made you kill yourself yet!” She responds, amusedly. They both start laughing, but I don't, I keep just watching.

“I see you never lost your sense of dark humor.” Mrs. Cristóbal snorts.

“Have got to keep something from life to life,” she says, smiling, “makes things more interesting.” The tears have mostly dried on her face by now. Mrs. Cristóbal hands her a tissue—that seems to have materialized from thin air. She uses to wipe the remnants of her tears away. Straightening herself up, she approaches the double doors. She turns back to wave at us briefly then pushes through them. A bright light consumes her as she keeps walking. From my vantage point, I can almost see the blisters on her face instantaneously heal right before the doors slam shut and the room returns to its previous state. I turn back to Mrs. Cristóbal who's still giggling a little from the joke Hikari made. By now, I realized the joke and start giggling too. Eventually, we come back to the conversation.

“How old are you, Damien?” She asks. She puts the paper with my name back in the typewriter and begins typing once again.

“My birth date was September 17th, 2052.” I respond, the gravity of my death hits me. “I was seventeen...” _I was so young._ She continues typing as she speaks.

“Finally, how did you die, and how many times have you been through here?”

“Suicide and this is my first time here,” I say. Mrs. Cristóbal frowns and stops typing. I know she can't see but it feels like she's looking directly into my soul. I know the question is coming. I know it is.

“Why, querido?” cocking her head. I sigh and look away. Her eyes make me feel guilty for some reason.

“I had a major falling out with my best friend, Hector, so I ignored his call when he tried to reach me the next night. It turned out that he needed a ride home from a party because he was too drunk to drive. Since I didn’t pick him up, he decided to drive anyway. He crashed into a tree and died. When I found out, I was so enraged with him for being so stupid that I didn’t even attend his funeral. After that, I started having horrible nightmares about the crash. Every time, I would see vivid images of his mangled body as he kept calling my name. I became so haunted by his death that I relied heavily on drugs and alcohol to clear my mind. One night, the nightmares were especially bad and so I just wanted to escape it all.” She shakes her head and begins typing again.

“I can see that you are selfish but also feel guilty,” she sighed, “but you can fix your bad character in your next life. Unfortunately, people frown upon suicide even in the afterlife. Many consider it selfish or cowardice.” I turn back to her confused. _Wow, even in death I can’t catch a break. I know what bullying is like, but it strikes me that people can be prejudice even in the afterlife._ She opens the same squeaky desk drawer and searches for another tag. My mind immediately shifts focus to her. I remember I need to find out what that tattoo and the bracelet are.

“Is-or _was_ -Hikari from California? There was a tattoo on Hikari’s neck that says “CA,” but it looked fresh as if it was just finished.” I ask to which she chortles.

“Like this?” Mrs. Cristóbal then turns her head, revealing a similar small, black tattoo except hers reads “AP”. I stare intently, and nod, then remember she wouldn’t be able to hear me, so I acknowledge it aloud.  
“You have one too.” She responds, pointing to a mirror that randomly appeared on the wall across the room. I approach the mirror then turn my head the same way she did, and there it was. A small, black tattoo that read “SI”.

“What does ‘SI’ stand for?”

“Self-Inflicted. Anyone who directly or even indirectly kills themselves is put in that unit. My tattoo is ‘AP’ because I’m an Amnipel, who is someone who dies full of good character. Most also die of natural causes, as I did after my last life. This frees us from the reincarnation cycle and allows us to help operate Purgatory. We’re basically the ‘goody-two-shoes’ of the afterlife.” She laughs to herself which makes me smile.

“Are there any other categories?” I inquire.

“There's actually six altogether. You know Amnipels and Self-Inflicted, but there’s also ‘Natural Causes,’ ‘Catastrophe/Accident,’ ‘Disease/Illness,’ and ‘Manslaughter/Homicide,’ each with their respective initials.” I look at her quite stunned. _Who knew dead people were put into groups too._ I walk back over to her desk after glancing at the tattoo in the mirror one last time.

“How does the tattoo get on my neck? I didn’t feel anything, and it doesn’t hurt.”

“It simply appears as soon as you step into this room.” She replies, pointing at the door.

“And what about that color-changing bracelet thing you put on Hikari?” She digs in the open drawer, then pulls out a white bracelet and slams the squeaky drawer shut. I stretch out my arm so she can wrap the bracelet around my wrist. The white bracelet immediately turns bright pink. I furrow my brow. _That doesn't seem good._

“This is your Temperament Tag. They measure the character you’ve had in your previous lives. It seems that you were a little too selfish this first time. That could use some improvement but at least you're not darker than pink. The redder your bracelet, the worse your character was.” I audibly nod in understanding.

“That makes sense.” She smiles.

“I don’t usually do this, but I have enjoyed your curiosity and our insightful conversation. Plus, I don’t get many young people through here, so I don’t get to give out treats often.” She reaches into a different drawer in her desk, pulling out a chocolate bar and setting it on the counter. I’m instantly delighted, thanking her. She wishes me luck on my journey and points to the doors adjacent to her desk, signaling me to go through them. I quickly devour my candy bar—in fear I can't take it with me once I leave through the doors. I approach the exit cautiously, mildly fearful of what may come. I look back at Mrs. Cristóbal for reassurance. She waves, her smile still bright. I take a deep breath and push the door slightly, letting a bit of light seep into the room. Just as I push the door further, I stop.

“Wait, will we ever get to see each other again?” The bright light starts to blind me. She leans over her desk to face me, nodding. I smile, content as I continue to walk toward the light.

“See you next lifetime!” I hear her call behind me as the doors slam shut.

**Author's Note:**

> CHARACTER NOTES:  
> Damien LaPierre: teenage, black man (17). He's quiet but blunt when he does speak up, naive, curious, and selfish. He doesn't care for others when they upset him which caused the death of his friend, leading him to commit suicide. Doesn’t want to admit that he was wrong. (SI Unit)
> 
> Hector Navarro: teenage, Mexican man (18). He’s bitter, unforgiving, and stubborn at first. After dying in a drunk driving accident, he resents Damien for being too selfish to answer his calls. (DI Unit)
> 
> Mrs. Florencia Cristóbal: older, Brazilian woman (67). She wears thick glasses even though she's completely blind because of her glaucoma. She has long grey hair that she keeps in a bun atop her head. She's soft-spoken, young-hearted, wise, clever, strong, and kind. Died of old age. Runs the front desk at Purgatory by herself, she's the all-knowing, “gatekeeper” Amnipel. (AP Unit)
> 
> Hikari Komagata: young, Asian, woman (23). Has long black hair and a dark sense of humor. She's realistic, creative, and fun-loving. Was in a car accident after just being married, her wife survived but she didn't. (CA Unit)
> 
> **Of course--questions, comments, concerns, feedback, criticism, etc. would be greatly appreciated!!


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